When
by ellabellaboo
Summary: Luby-ish and very anti-Carter, sorry! :: This was originally a one-shot, but updated 25/2/08. -- How do you get through each day knowing the one person you want and need is right in front of you, just out of reach? --
1. Abby

**A/N:** I wrote this very quickly at a time when I wasn't feeling good at all, so it's not really something I am proud of, and also really isn't my usual style. Far from it actually. This isn't particularly Luby, which is a change, huh? Though at one point, it does indirectly speak about Luka, and throughout the whole thing, it holds extremely strong and bitter anti-Carter feelings, which is more like me! Comments are greatly appreciated, as ever. Thanks.

**Dedication: **This is mainly for Elissa, Kenzie, Josefin, Heather, Andy and Alice who have always been there for me and who I love to pieces! Thank you guys!

* * *

When I look into your eyes, I feel nothing. No love, no affection, nothing. I'm not mesmerised by your smile; in fact I'm repulsed by it. How can you smile when there is nothing to smile about?

When we're out in public and you reach out to put your arm about my waist, everyone thinks we're adorable; the doctor and his nurse happy together. Only I'm not happy, not with you.

When you look at me, I squirm. In fact, you don't just look. You scrutinize every single movement I make. Every word I say. Everything I do. When I see you watching me I wish you wouldn't. You're just waiting for me to mess up, you know I will. You're waiting for Abby's next cock-up, so that you can rush in… the knight in shining armor, the good guy, John Carter, ready to rescue even the most fucked up of people. Hooray for Saint Carter.

When you parade me around the room, at some godforsaken society banquet, circulating amongst the rest of your upper-middle-class snob friends I feel like I'm some sort of trophy. A reminder to you of all the great things you have done in your life, not for yourself, but for other people.

I'm a diversion from all the times you, the great John Carter, have screwed up. You think you can fix me, fix me like you fix the rest of your charity cases, with a wad of cash and a grinning photo in the paper. That's what I am to you, a charity case. A charity case you call your girlfriend. A charity case that you fuck.

When you touch me, when your fingers crawl all over my skin, I want to tear them away. It takes all my strength to suppress the aching sensation raging through my body, urging my hands to wrench yours off me. It takes all my power to turn away and hide the grimace contorting my face.

When we lie in your bed, the smell of the thin sprinkling of moisture on your body oozing in through my nostrils, it is all that I can do not to heave. When I feel your arms around me and I lie still, pressed against your chest, I know you think I feel something but I don't. I just clench my eyes shut tight, and wish that I was wrapped in his tender embrace. I can pretend that you are him and not you.

When you ask me what's wrong, I say, "Nothing."

But when you turn and walk away, I whisper, "Everything."


	2. Luka

**A/N:** Okie pokie, weeeell, like I said before, this story was only ever meant as a one-shot but I succumed to some gentle blackmail waaaay back in July 2007 and ended up churning out this... I guess it's sort of like a sequel from our Croatian Sensation's POV. One very talented writer out there, (she knows who she is) asked me to post the second part on here, so here goes.

* * *

When my gaze dances across the ER and I see you together, jealousy clutches my insides in its agonising clasp, twisting them into incomprehensible and unimaginable positions, and resentment wrenches at my leaden heart. My eyes trace the line of your cleanly-shaven jaw and I notice, with abhorrence, that your almost-flawless appearance is not even marred by the slightest of nicks. Your skin is not branded by the trail of an agitated razor, or engraved with the creases and crevices that mark the hardships you have overcome, namely because you have been forced to endure very little. No, your flesh is smooth, sterile even; it has not been tarnished by the raw reality of losing everyone you have ever loved. By contrast, my skin, like my mind, is tainted with unhealed scars showing the horrors of my past. I watch you with her and I drag my mouth into a small smile. You think I am happy for you, you believe I'm giving you my blessing to take away the woman I love, but I'm not. You are too engrossed in your own self-obsessed existence to realise that my half-hearted expressions of cheerfulness for you lie upon a bed of exhaustion and near defeat, near defeat that you have the one thing, the one person I want.

When the thin line of your lips curves upwards into a smile, and that sparkling glint, once so familiar, but now so foreign to me, twinkles in your eyes, I can see, without a doubt, that you're happy. My whole body aches for that feeling; it has, for the most part, been missing in my life since we… well, since the argument. I know that it is my own fault, the words that slipped from my lips were angry, they betrayed my feelings in every way possible, and they will haunt me for the rest of my life. Abby is the only person who can make me happy, and since she is with you, I cannot feel the warmth that happiness brings with it, I can just be bitter that you can.

When you say her name, whether you're speaking to her directly, or referring to her before other people, you make her a possession, you own her. I wish the word would stick in your throat, you don't deserve to associate yourself with her. You don't utter her name like it's a precious jewel, you don't treasure it, and you don't treasure her. You take no pride in her, you are simply proud that you 'have' her.

When you touch her, I have to fight the urge to yank your hands away. When you drape your arm about her slender waist, and I see your fingers lightly resting just above the curve of her hips, I'm just thankful that the thin layer of her scrubs acts as a barrier, protecting her beautiful flesh from your touch. You aren't even remotely good enough for Abby, and I want you to know that. I want you to understand that you aren't worthy of her, but you're perched so high up on the pedestal you have created for 'Saint Carter,' that you would never accept that, even if I could somehow tell you.

When you make a mistake with a patient, or when your arrogant nature trickles out through even the slightest crack in the noble façade which you have masked your true personality with, I remember that you have your own faults too. It's only then that I realise that Abby doesn't want someone who is perfect; she just wants someone who loves her for who she is. That's when it dawns on me; I can do that. I have been doing just that for as long as I can remember; ever since I first caught a glimpse of that beautiful smile tickling at the edges of her mouth, I knew I would always love her, totally and completely. You, on the other hand, could spend the rest of your life trying to grasp the concept of loving her for who she is, not who she could be, and even then, you probably would not be able to do it. But then I'm reminded that you're the one with her, not me.

When we're standing side by side in the drug lock-up and you ask me what I need, I say, "Nothing."

But when you turn and walk away, I whisper, "Her."

* * *

I'm a complete review-junkie, so if you have the time, please feed my one slightly unhealthy addiction ;) I'd be eternally grateful. 


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